The May 6, 1865 Edition of Harper's Weekly includes a touching portrait
of President Abraham Lincoln, and his son Tad. This issue was
published shortly after President Lincoln's Assassination, and includes
incredible historical content on Lincoln, the Assassination,
Reconstruction, Lincoln's funeral, and news of a mourning nation.

NEVER, was King or
Emperor honored with such obsequies as those with which our Republic has laid to
rest its greatest hero. It was not the pomp of the procession, not the splendor
of
the funereal rites, that gave character to the touching ceremony, but the
infinite tenderness and love of a great people.
It was the sorrow in every heart that moved each outward expression of
affection. It was the universal grief so heavily draped our streets. Not only
the mansions of the rich, but the squalid hovels of the poor put on the habit of
mourning. The reward which the Republic gives to its faithful
servants is not alone that the people have raised them to the seat of honor, but
that when they fall in their country's cause their principal monument is the
people's love.

The
funeral ceremony proper took place at Washington on the 19th of April, at
the White House. The remains of the President lay in the Green Room, in a
metallic coffin. On each side of the coffin were four silver handles, with stars
between, a vein of silver winding around the whole cast in a serpentine form.
This rested upon a canopied catafalque, and was decorated with wreaths of moss
and evergreen, with white flowers and lilies intermingled. Around the
catafalque, at noon, were gathered the family of the President, the
officiating
clergymen, the delegates from New York City, the heads of Bureaus,
representatives of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions, the Governors of
several States, the Assistant Secretaries, a large number of Congressmen,
officers of the Supreme Court, and the Diplomatic Corps.

Reverend Dr. HALL
opened the services by reading from the Episcopal service of the Dead. This was
followed by an eloquent and affecting prayer by
Bishop
SIMPSON of the Methodist
Episcopal Church. This portion of the service was most touching. At the
close of his fervent appeal to the throne of Grace the Bishop repeated the Lord's
Prayer, in which the whole audience joined as with one voice. The effect was
sublime beyond any power of words to
express, and the whole audience was melted to tears under its effect.
Reverend Dr. Gunther, the pastor of the church which the President and his
family were in the habit of attending, preached the
funeral discourse. The
service was closed with prayer by Reverend Dr.
GRAY, chaplain of the Senate.

The procession started from the White House at 2
P.M. and proceeded up Pennsylvania Avenue to the
Capitol amidst the
tolling of bells and the firing of minute-guns. The funeral car was carried up
the steps of the Capitol, beneath the very spot where, six weeks before, the
President had delivered his
second Inaugural, and into the Rotunda, where the
body was removed from the car to an-other catafalque, where a second service was
read. Here the procession dispersed, leaving the remains of the President in the
Rotunda, where they were open to view the next day.

A little before seven o'clock on the morning of the 21st the remains were
escorted to the depot of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.
Lieutenant-General
GRANT followed immediately after the hearse. At ten o'clock
the train arrived at Baltimore, and the coffin was laid in the Exchange for
three or four hours, when the train started for
Harrisburg, where it arrived in
the evening. The next morning (the 22d) the
cortege proceeded to Philadelphia, where the body was laid in
Independence Hall and exposed to the view of thousands.

On the 24th New York city received the remains of the President. The scene upon
the route from the ferry-landing at the foot of Desbrosses Street, and at the
City Hall, where the body was laid in state, was inexpressibly solemn and
impressive. Early in the morning crowds of people gathered in the City Hall
Park, and waited there for hours in order to obtain a view of the features of
their departed hero. This scene was only exceeded in solemnity by the procession
of the following day—the largest that ever thronged the streets of the great
metropolis. It started at one o'clock
P.M., proceeding up Broadway to Fourteenth Street, through Fourteenth Street to
Fifth Avenue, and thence through Thirty-fourth Street to the Hudson River
Railroad Depot on the way to Springfield, Illinois, where the President is to b
buried.

Among the many tributes to
President
LINCOLN one of the best was that paid by
HENRY WARD BEECHER in a discourse delivered on the 23d. The following
extract we quote as appropriate to the funeral ceremony :

And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive. The
nation rises up at
every stage of his coming.
Cities and States

are his pall-bearers, and the
cannon speaks the hours
with solemn progression. Dead, dead, dead, he yet speaketh. Is
WASHINGTON dead? Is
HAMPDEN dead? Is
DAVID dead? Is any man that
was ever fit to live dead ? Disenthralled of flesh, risen to the unobstructed
sphere where passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life is
now grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful, as no earthly life can be.
Pass on, thou that hast overcome ! Your sorrows, oh people, are his
paeans ; your bells and bands and
muffled drums sound triumph
in his ears. Wail and weep here ; God makes it echo joy and triumph there. Pass
on ! Four years ago, oh Illinois, we took from thy midst an untried man, and
from among the people ; we return him
to you a mighty conqueror.
Not thine any more, but the nations ; not ours, but the world's.
Give him place, oh ye prairies ! In the midst of this great continent his dust
shall rest, sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to
kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places
of the West chant his requiem ! Ye people, behold the martyr whose blood, as so
many articulate words, pleads for fidelity,
for law, for liberty !"

DARK WHITE.

" I
DONE her up,
beautiful as she looks ; and
ain't
1 she a real
lady too, Mrs. Murphy ? I done her all up !"
So whispered old Dark White to her neighbor, as, setting down her basket of
clothes, piled high like so much new-fallen snow in a great white drift, she
stood, arms a-kimbo, on the stoop of the many-storied tenement-house where she
dwelt, and gazed after a carriage rolling away through the rosy mist of a soft
spring sunset.

Her black hood had fallen back, showing a face of fifty-five or sixty, tanned by
sun and wind, and with some gray hairs in the locks about the fore-head, but
comely enough still to show what a pretty woman she might have been
ere toil and time had laid their hands upon her. And as long as the
carriage was in sight she stood perfectly motionless, her arms akimbo, her black
eyes glittering, drinking in the picture with an ecstasy not to be ac-counted
for, gorgeous as was the equipage and lovely as was the lady who reclined upon
the scar-let cushions. When it was quite gone she picked up the basket, and
mounted to the attic where she dwelt with a step which as yet had nothing in it
of age or decrepitude. Mrs. Murphy looked after her with a grin. "Old Dark is
clane crazy about Miss Hamilton," she said to herself or some invisible
familiar. "I'd not break me
heart an' wear me life out for any
lady's white dresses. She'll
have a stroke some day sitting in the sun kapin'
the very dies off thim whilst they dhry. Och, the fulich crayther ! An' she
ridin' past without a look or a nod. Done her up ! Much she cares for that, Dark
White!"

But whether the lady cared or no, poor Dark, up in her garret-room, was busy for
her still at her laundress craft—not for love of pelf. That grew strong when
other people's clothes were the
tub or on the hoard; but with pure pleasure in her work—as the poet writes his
tenderest sonnet for his lady's
ear - as the musician's song is sweetest beneath his Lulcinea's balcony—so did
Dark White "do up" Miss Hamilton's
white robes and dainty frills and sleeves to a more perfect pitch of snowy
purity than those of any other customer. It was her way of showing adoration.
Now, with her charcoal at a ruddy glow, she set to work ironing, polishing the
muslin with a dainty touch, folding and crimping and fluting with artistic care.

" There ain't a lady in the land done up nicer," she muttered, indulging in her
inveterate habit of talking to herself. " And there ain't a lady more a lady. I
seen the gentlemen look after her, and the ladies whisper: Oh, she's
as pretty as a picture, jest as pretty !"

If Dark White loved beauty it seemed a pity she should not have more of it about
her. Her garret home was high and bleak. The paint, such as it had been, worn
away from the dormer window casings. Without that window glimpses of
chimney-pots, and an occasional cat or two, and the sky-light on somebody's
roof. Within, four walls, or rather three and a half, for the ceiling sloped low
on one side, leaving barely two feet between its termination and the floor; two
strips of rag-carpet, a black
bureau, on which reposed an old Bible, on the fly-leaf of which was
recorded the birth of Dorcas White—Dorcas being the original name of the
washer-woman, though custom had converted it into " Dark"—and
four chairs. Add to these a clock, two candlesticks, and something in a frame
which casual observers always took at first sight to be a bronze jug, but which
proved on inquiry to be a paper profile of the late Mr. White, cordwainer, and
you have the entire contents of the apartment, which, in addition to being
attained by the most break-neck flight of stairs ever manufactured, was
miserably hard to warm in winter. Yet Dark had lived there ten long years, for
two reasons : firstly, there was in the back-yard what the laundress called
"a good drying ;" and, secondly, it was only a few blocks distant from
the aristocratic region where the Hamiltons'
mansion reared its marble walls. To be near that, to see the heiress at times
roll past in her carriage, to go softly out after night and hear the floods of
music and see the gleams of light from the windows, and now and then when it was
warm to distinguish through those open casements the voice of Charlotte
Hamilton, were pleasures the old woman would have relinquished much for. If ever
humble heart shined an idol the heart
of old Dark White so enshrined the beautiful heiress. It had been so
since the latter was a child. Twice a week for eighteen long years Dark had
opened the servants' door of the great house with a familiar hand, and-with her
basket of linen poised on one hip toiled slowly up the velvet-covered stairs and
tapped at a door. Then waiting and listening she would hear the cry, " Come in,
Dark !" and a glow would pass over her face as
though lamplight had fallen on it for an instant.

. At first the voice that cried, " Come in, Dark!"

was the voice of a young child just able to talk. Then it was a girl's voice.
Now it was a woman's, musical and mellow. Always it was just as sweet to poor
Dark's ear. Tonight as the clock struck ten the white drift was polished and the
basket brimful. And Dark looked out of her window.

"It's fine," she said, "and I'll take 'em over now. I'd like to see her afore I
sleep. It makes me feel good."

And tying on her hood she took up her burden and departed. Down the clean but
shabby street, along a better one,
and theta suddenly into the magnificent
avenue where the stone-walls and the porch columns were half draped by
clinging festoons of vines and bunches of purple blossoms. The Hamiltons' house
was the handsomest of all. And as
Dark crept in at the servants' door she wondered, as she always did, at
the quiet splendor. She was half afraid to set her foot on the rich coverings of
hall and stairs, they were so different from the bare planks, or the bits of rag
carpet she was used to. But they must be trodden to reach Miss Hamilton's room,
so she went on and up, and tapped upon the panels of the boudoir with her soaked
and spongy knuckles. There was no answer. Dark listened and sighed. "She ain't
here," she said. ` She's jest gone somewhere; well, I'll leave the things and
go, only 'twould ha' been good to see her." And opening the door she entered. As
she did so a young lady turned with a start from the mantle against which she
leaned with a letter clutched in her hand and something very like tears in her
eyes.

"Yes, Miss Lotty," said old Dark, "and I've done 'em up lovely, though I say it
that shouldn't. See how white and sheer them sleeves is ! and this gown. I have
such luck with your things always —more'n with most folks."

"You take pains with them, Dark—that's the reason," said the young lady. And
then she looked ardently into the distance, and tears came into her great eyes.
She was thinking of something beside the linen in that basket. The old woman
watched her intently ; her fingers knitted themselves together ; her eyes grew
anxious. At last she spoke, " Miss Lotty—"

The young lady looked up with a start—" Well, Dark."

" Oh, Miss Lotty, I'm a makin' bold; but you haven't any ma, and I've done you
up for the hull of your life ; and, poor washer-woman as I am, I'm fond o' you.
And when you was a child me and you was friends, and you told me your troubles.
I've mended dolls for you, and I've washed their things, and I've seen the time
when you've put 3-our arm round nay
neck and said, `Dear Dark !'—I have ; and I can't help, Miss Lotty, when
there's tears in your eyes, and you're so pale, askin' you to tell old Dark what
ails you, and beggin' to be let to do something if I can."

A flush passed over the girl's face, and then the tears burst forth unchecked,
and she sobbed out-right for a moment.

"I am in some grief, Dark," she said. " At least I fancy I am; but it's all
nonsense, I dare say. No real trouble—nothing you could under-stand. I'm neither
ill, nor has papa scolded me. I think Dr. Jalap would call ate hysterical ; but
thank you—you're a good soul, Dark." These
words were not spoken before she had choked down her sobs and dried her
eyes, and now she stood tall and straight before old Dark and tried to smile. It
was a vain effort. Dark knew it. "Ain't there nothin' I can do?" she said.

"No, Dark. As I told you, it is nothing you could even understand."

Old Dark turned to go. She gave one step to-ward the door, and then turned back,
caught the little snow-white hand with rose-tinted finger-tips, and pressed it
to her lips. " Good-night, Miser Lotty," she said, " and God stand between you
and grief. Good-night !" Then with her empty basket she went home, and there, by
the dim candle-light, stood before that odd paper profile, which looked to
strangers like a bronze jug, the profile of the late Silas White, shoemaker, and
gazed at it intently. "Ah! "she said, mebbe Dark White might understand more
than some thinks she can. A girl's heart is much the same rich or poor. Ah dear,
how the time goes ! I was young once, though I never was a lady !" And then she
put her candle out, and went to bed.

But Charlotte Hamilton never slept at all. Up and down the splendid boudoir she
paced all night long with that letter in her hand; her black hair unbound ; her
bosom heaving beneath the folds of lace and muslin which veiled it. Over and
over again she sobbed forth a name and clenched her jeweled fingers until the
almond-shaped nails cut into the soft palm. And once she sobbed aloud,

" Charley, I can not, can not give you up!" When the gay dawn broke she sat down
beside her rosewood desk to write. Thrice she begun—thrice rent the paper into
fragments and laid down her pen.

At last these words remained upon a snowy sheet which she folded and placed
within an envelope directed to " Charles Gordon :"

"If you think I write these words without pain you are
mistaken. If you think my heart is changed you err; but
my father's will is law—I must obey him. Yes, nest Charles ; I have no
choice. Yet in that cruel, cruel letter
which you have received I have no part. If he has said
to you, as I know he has, that a Miss Hamilton has, no
right to stoop, that you are beneath me, believe that I
would have felt honored by your love. If he has told you
alto that I will soon become the wife of another man, lie
has presumed too far upon his powers, and upon my love
and obedience. I will neither wed against his will the
man I love, nor at his bidding one whom I detest. Farewell,
Charles, it is hard to bid you forget me; bet for both
of us to remember will be too sharp a pain, and so I write
the words—forgot me and be happy.

" CHARLOTTE HAMILTON " The letter
was sent; and that night, when the long rows of lamps glittered like jewels
along the stately avenue, Dark White crept up the broad staircase once again,
and stood in Miss Hamilton's room.

She was dressing for a ball, and the white robes

she wore by choice rather than silks or velvets, and the pearls in her black
hair arid about her rounded wrists and at her throat, made her look like a
bride. Dark told her so ; and at that she laughed a little bitterly. "And when
you are married," said Dark (if it's in the grandest church in New York), " I'll
come to see it ; and I'll think, standing there, I done her up, and as long as
I've got two hands I'll keep a doin' of her up, if she'll but let me. But I
didn't come for that Miss Lotty. I've a message—" " A message, Dark—from whom ?"

She had turned from the glass, and stood with her hands full of the long ropes
of pearls she was binding in her hair.

" From a gentleman in sailor's clothes, Miss Lotty —a tall gentleman with light
hair—not like a sail-or in his looks at all. No doubt I don't understand it.
There's a many things a poor old body like me needn't understand. But he asked
me did I know Miss Hamilton. Says I, ' I do, Sir. I've done her up since she was
a baby, Sir.' Says he, `I have a letter for her that must go safe. Can you give
it to her without any one else knowing of it?' Says I, ' Ay, can I, Sir.' So he
gave me this,"—and from under her shawl she drew a tiny note—" and then he went
away. He was a handsome man Miss, and young and brave and good, I'm sure, and
very sad, Miss, like as if his heart was broke a'most."

Charlotte Hamilton caught the note from the wrinkled fingers of the
washer-woman, and, as she did so, dropped the ropes of pearls upon the floor.
her foot would have crushed them as she pressed forward to the light, but that
Dark stooped and picked them up.

She read the lines again and again, and then crouched down lower and lower, and
hid her face in the cushion of her foot-stool.

Old Dark, in her patched calico and black hood, bent over her. " Miss Lotty !
oh, Miss Lotty, dear ! Dark thinks she understands. A heart's a heart, rich or
poor, Miss Lotty; and he's one to have heart's love given him."

Then Charlotte Hamilton lifted her tear-stained face and looked at Dark.

" Did you ever wish to be rich, to live in a house like this, to be of a high
family ?—did you ever envy great folks, Dark ?" she said.

" The Lord forgive me ! many and many's the time, Miss Lotty."

"Oh, Dark, never do it again ! I wish I were the poorest girl alive! I wish I
were your daughter, helping you o'er the tubs day after day ; for all this
wealth, and style, and grand family-name have stood between my life and
happiness. Because I am Miss Hamilton I must be wretched!"

And then, without any apparent reason, Dark White began to tremble from head to
foot, and to wring her hands and moan, and panted out, breathlessly, " Oh Miss
Lotty, dear, don't say that, or else you'll break my heart. It's a dreadful
thing to be poor. It is, indeed, Miss Lotty."

She was so troubled, so woeful, that Charlotte Hamilton stilled her own grief to
soothe her. Two hours afterward the heiress was moving through the dance in her
white robes and glistening pearls, and no one guessed that she was miserable—not
even the wealthy lover on whose shoulder her white hand rested in the mazes of
the waltz. But Dark, with no eye upon her save that of God and his holy angels,
sobbed softly by her attic window, and be-moaned her darling's sorrow.

So Charles Gordon was far upon the sea, with every prospect sacrificed, and no
thought but to fling his life away. And Miss Hamilton moved through society as
decorously as ever ; and dressed as well, and smiled as much, and sang as often.
Yet the girl's heart was the sorest, as it always is. And Dark White the
washer-woman only knew that it was so—not Mr. Hamilton; not Percy Miles, of the
everlasting smile and the eternal fashion-plated costume, who came a wooing
under the father's favor ; not Argus-eyed society, ever on the look-out for
gossip. But at last there came a time when the calm was broken. Percy Milos made
an offer of his hand and heart, and was re-fused. That day Mr. Hamilton called
Charlotte to his study.

He was pale and stern. He laid the letter she had written on the table, and
said,

" Charlotte, I have not sent this yet ; I will not. Think again."

" I have thought," she said. " I will never marry him."

"Not if I command you to do so ?"

"You will not, Sir, for I could not obey you.. At your command"—and here her
voice faltered—" I refused the man I loved. I will live and die single at your
bidding, but I can marry no one else."

Then Mr. Hamilton, rising, took her hand in his. All her life long she never
forgot his look or his voice.

" Charlotte," he said, " I owe you a duty. I beg you to marry this gentleman--
not for my sake—for your own. Listen to me. I am oa the eve of bankruptcy. I can
not ward it off for many weeks. Marry Percy Miles, and a luxurious bone be yours
for life, and I shall be at peace. 1 would not have thwarted your girlish fancy
but for this knowledge. Be sensible now, and write a different answer."

For a moment Charlotte stood stunned and bewildered ; then she put her arms
about her father's neck.

"Papa," she said, "I will stay with you, share your poverty, work fur you if I
can, but hover marry Percy Miles, not though he were a king."

The old man only untwined her anus from his neck.

" I have warned you," he said. " Oh, girl, girl, you little know how low Percy
Miles stoops when he offers you his hand !"

" Poverty can not lower John Hamilton's daughter," said Charlotte, proudly. `
You have taught me that, papa."

" John Hamilton's daughter!" he repeated, with a sort of sneer. "All, well, 1
have dune my duty. I have warned you. Do as you please."

And standing beside her, he watehed her reseal

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